


Is That All There Is

by luihandle



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Music, Angst with a Happy Ending, Destructive Romance, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT)-centric, editor / band member mark lee, jazz singer donghyuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25915771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luihandle/pseuds/luihandle
Summary: The idea of getting into the winning side of chances for Mark is to overwhelm the negative probabilities with self-advantageous clues, pushing and sorting out any result right in his favor. But for the outcome of him meeting Donghyuck again, he has to rely on absolute luck.(jazz club patron meets new jazz singer au)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan & Mark Lee, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Is That All There Is

It is a dreary night, Mark concludes, as he counts the few assemblages of somber patrons drowning themselves in cocktails, booze, and old-school tunes at the frumpish jazz club on the west end of Samcheong-dong street. _Seventeen,_ Mark mutters steathily, his features subdued in glee. Slow nights are his favorite unashamedly, all taken without offense.

The jazz bar is far from exquisite, quite apparent from the get-go with its name apt to something too kitschy in an attempt to pass as New Orleans authentic, its exterior flourishing with its unfinished brick layering and flickering channel letter signs, and its interior a little too safe and unembellished enough to throw jazz truthers off. But it is not apologetic with its shortcomings. Its great selection of drinks from a respected mixologist, accompanied by a band certainly on par with many of the better-known jazz venues in Seoul, all with much less hundred of wons to spend, compensates three-folds what the ambiance lacks aesthetically.

Mark occupies his usual spot, wearily unbuttoning his collar with the club’s scruffy atmosphere, as he observes the band mid-tuning. He had the luxury to try different spots—from the front row, to the upper deck, beside the railings, down to the window-side couches—and only _his space_ at the left corner of the lower deck has the perfect blend of convenience, rightful acoustic volume, unblocked view of the center stage, and privacy from the buzzing socialites and pretentious enthusiasts which has probably clicked their heels sharply more than the band had hit the drums on their whole performance. It's his patron premium on a better deal.

"Isn’t it premonitive of you," Mark peers to his left upon hearing a soft baritone voice, catching Jaehyun casually sliding a shot glass towards him. "That you always end up with half a crowd every time you come here with your favorite spot free for you to grab."

Mark simpers as he picks up the shot glass with his long, pale fingers; raising it against the light as the sugared rim sparkles like jewelry. "It’s just luck.” 

"Luck is not what you call for something that you are doing consistently," Jaehyun scoffs with a tray in hand. “You know the tendencies, you know when to come. That's _skill_.”

"It's luck to have a free shot every time I come here," Mark peers up at Jaehyun, slightly leaning back as he takes the shot, leaving no liquid dripping. 

"It's not free if you don't order." Jaehyun grabs the empty shot glass unamusedly.

"I'm getting the usual," Mark turns his head at the stage, nearly timed with the reverb of the cello, then the sporadic clang of the drum top hat, then the random piano hits, then the chopped saxophone tunes. His brows furrow due a sudden regard. "Doyoung's not doing the soundcheck?"

"He won't be singing tonight." Jaehyun mutters, flipping a page to his notepad to write Mark's order. 

Mark barely blinks as a figure treads the small stage from the midst of the room chatter, his expression neither anxious nor excited as he checks the setlist from the music sheet stand. Perhaps Mark isn't too lucky today. Going to the jazz bar without Doyoung performing is selling the experience at its shortest. 

But in a whip, a few things happen. 

Through the dim lighting, dull and accented with dark shadows, the singer drums his fingers against the vintage microphone as he croons with the band accompaniment, his eyes delicately closing as he maneuvers the first line at ease. Mark watches the singer _illuminates_ right in front of his eyes, almost too blinding, too bright for anyone’s comfort. 

His voice is velvet in auditory form: thick, sensual, warm, limited edition.

As the saxophone reaches the bridge, their eyes meet. The singer’s gaze—sharp in contrast to the rest of his soft features—is one straight line of lethal tension and a direct stab in the heart. It should be enough for Mark to turn away, as human nature does when they meet a stranger’s. Except neither break their stare, the trance of kaleidoscope reverie defying actuality and time, only broken when someone intervenes from reality, being Jaehyun on this instance.

“Vieux Carré, Seafood Etouffee, and Dumante Sour to keep you occupied.”

Mark looks up to Jaehyun, his exasperation veiling scarcely combined with the utmost intention to punch him in the face with his audacity to cut in. But he realizes wasting time is unacceptable at this moment.

When he looks back at the stage, the band is not playing anymore and the man is gone.

**~o~**

Mark finds him hunched over a half-eroded divider at the back of the bar, his one knee bent against the brick as he slowly swirls the champagne flute glass dangling on his fingertips, a lit cigarette on the other. His previously overwaxed hair is now slightly disheveled, and a once neatly pressed tux is now creased and shrunk in uneven folds.

Lee Donghyuck, as Jaehyun informs Mark upon handing his bill, reflects Seoul’s cityscape on his eyes, glimmering night lights like a prism splashed in different spectrum of colors and bright whites. Mark shouldn't be surprised, seeing such performers born to do their craft, but he's never seen anyone too _perfect_ like this, even outside the stage.

"Are you here to give me a tip?”

It takes few seconds, stretching to more than a minute, for Mark to process that Donghyuck is talking to him, he's now looking at him, and is waiting for him to either answer back or fuck off nicely. 

Mark opens his mouth, his gears grinding in full speed as the right reply to start a string of decent conversation. But his lips manifest on its own, working without a thought. “Should I?"

“Yeah I guess so,” Donghyuck throws the cigarette butt at the floor. “It’s better than nothing, I won’t be performing here for the longest time.”

“Should I kill Doyoung so you can keep coming back here?“

Donghyuck’s lips break into a smile before he cracks up. The shoulder-rising, whole-body laugh. Mark has no idea what Donghyuck finds funny, even if he’s wearing the same grin himself. 

“If that was an option way back then, I would have gone that route, trust me.” Donghyuck empties his flute glass before he turns his head back to the view of the city, smile still apparent on his lips.

Nobody talks for a moment, with Donghyuck gazing at downtown Seoul, and Mark staring at Donghyuck’s outline—his newly found hidden Seoul scenery. He knows that the conversation has been dismissed and that he should go. Except Donghyuck mumbles something, intrigue saturating his tone. 

“You play violin or guitar.,” Donghyuck peers at him. “Maybe cello?”

“How the...” Mark shoots an incredulous look at Donghyuck before he notices him gazing intently at his calloused fingertips. Mark instinctively hides his hands on his pockets, leaving an imprint of disappointment on Donghyuck’s face. “Just a guitar,” Mark brushes his calloused fingertips against his trousers. “In a contemporary band. I’m not too fancy to play violin or cello.”

Donghyuck lays his flute glass at the top of the brick divider. “You mean _the_ guitar, that shit hard to master,” He taps his right foot against the cemented floor in lento. “Lead? Rhythm? Bass?”

“Mostly rhythm,” Mark suddenly finds the shift of conversation to him uncomfortable. “And lead or bass, depending really on what the band wants me to do that day.”

Donghyuck nods. “Depending on your gigs.”

“Yeah. We usually play in—“

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Donghyuck shushes Mark in a dart, mirth tugging his features. “This is fun.”

Mark isn’t sure if they’re speaking on the same wavelength. “...fun.”

“Don’t tell me where you play, I won’t be mentioning mine,” Donghyuck grins widely, his eyes turning glassier the more he mumbles his idiosyncratic idea. “Let’s see who will find who first.”

Euphony is Mark’s infrequent jazz club visits and scheduled weekend gigs—a juxtaposition of unanticipated satisfaction and conveyed serenity rhyming into a harmony of self-pleasure. Cacophony is his weekday white-collar job—a discordant combination of stress-inducing incompetency unfathomably dripping and drowning him from eight to five and working with words to clean up somebody else’s mess.

“What,” Mark blinks in perplexity the soonest he enters his office. “Is this.” 

There’s a stack of typewritten documents towering his desk, barely clamped by an alligator clip as if they’re plopped and left at once for the sake of saying it arrived at his office adaptly. Across the room is his assistant, sitting cross-legged in his chair and playing his phone without much care.

“Obviously some papers for you to check sir.” Jaemin doesn’t bother peering up from his phone, waving his hands in the air. 

“From whom?”

Jaemin shrugs dismissively. “I don’t know, maybe from a writer.”

Mark takes a deep breath as he shuts his eyes in resignation. “One more attempt of you being a smartass, you’ll be seeing your things thrown out the building.”

Jaemin pauses his game and gives Mark this deadpan look, almost taunting him with his audacity to consider something unspeakably irrational. “I already texted you a while ago that Mr. Nakamoto will see you today to talk about his manuscript. And there’s a document on your desk later on. Connect the dots perhaps?”

“Get out of my office,” Mark says, retracting to his seat as he scans the manuscript thoughtlessly. 

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “Okay, rude. I printed that for you.”

“I don’t want to see you anywhere near the vicinity,” Mark looks at Jaemin. “If I see even a strand of your hair, you’re fired.”

“Mr. Nakamoto will be waiting for you at the izakaya down the street at 1 pm,” Jaemin reminds him. “If you show up in time that would be much appreciated.”

**~o~**

He shows up an hour late to his meeting, catching Yuta already done with his mains and lunging to a goblet of overpriced, fancy matcha dessert while peering his phone.

There were a number of things already set in his mind prior to seeing him, and one of them is to fuck up the meeting so bad, Yuta himself will voluntarily pull out his work. There is no way Mark will let Yuta’s _magnum opus_ see the light of day from their publishing house.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mark slides to the chair at his front.

“It’s fine, I called the consultation too late,” Yuta waves his spoon dismissively. “I already ate though. What’s your order? I’ll call the waiter.”

“No, I’m still full.” Mark drops an expandable folder at the table, nearly knocking off a pair of chopsticks at his tableside. The glistening of Yuta’s eyes the moment he pulled out his manuscript didn’t go unnoticed to Mark.

“So how was it?” Yuta stabs his spoon against the gelato. “I’m thinking we can get this published around Christmas, because holiday money. And it would be a great bundle for gifts too. Or around wintertime? I’ve read somewhere that people tend to read more during the cold—“ 

“I have two scenarios for you, Mr. Nakamoto,” Mark leans his arms against the manuscript, not wasting a single second in Yuta’s prattle. “Your work has this unique realistic or idealistic outcome,” He stares at Yuta impassively. “Where should I start first?”

“Hmmm,” Yuta mouths the last scoop of his dessert, totally oblivious with Mark’s brewing proposition. “I don’t know, you hit me with it.”

Mark sneers as he flips through the jotted down manuscript at his front. “We’ll take your plan with the ideal scenario to release your book around November, just enough for it to gain traction before the holidays and do the usual promotional shit. Ads, social media platforms, launch to different distribution channels, tying with book conferences—”

“I have my podcast to talk about it too.” Yuta is beaming.

“Yeah, as I said, anything you want to do with it,” Mark taps the manuscript with his pen. “And then, comes the _grand launch_ ,” He pulls a tissue and glances at Yuta. “I hope you don’t mind me writing a sample quote on this tissue.”

Yuta cackles. “I mean, you could have just torn a random page on that manuscript.”

And it’s there, when Mark grins, amusement. “That’s a better idea.” He tears a random page on the manuscript, too quickly for Yuta’s comprehension, and starts listing down numbers. “Do you have a number in mind how much you want to sell this book?”

“I’m thinking—since this is hard-bound, and around 500 pages—we can start at ₩19,000.”

“Mhmmm,” Mark clicks his pen as he slips the torn paper towards Yuta. “I have something different to offer.”

It’s barely a quote with scribbles of numbers listed down. From ₩19,000, strike, then ₩17,000, strike, ₩15,000, rubbed off, until it hits ₩2000, bolded, encircled, underlined, basically put on emphasis. Yuta looks at Mark that is waiting for his response, fingers intertwined.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“See, I’ve read your story. It’s interesting, you have a great idea in your mind,” Mark sneers, running his sight to the scribbled paper. “ It’s quite hilarious. I got a good chuckle about it.”

Yuta clenches his jaw. “It’s melodrama.”

“What, isn’t it funny how you attempted to give your pathetic shells of characters some personality? You could have scrapped out the 400-pages conflict content, and they will miss nothing,” Mark straightens his sitting posture. “I’m doing you a favor here, Mr. Nakamoto. The minute your book hits the shelves, you will gain nothing but atrocious reviews. At least we’re giving them the benefit of the doubt that it’s only worth a half ream of paper.” 

“You motherfucker.”

“Or we could go with the realistic scenario for you to scrap everything,” Mark says, ignoring how the rest of the customers are now stealing glances at them. “Or find a new publisher. That would be—“

Yuta’s fist is a wall of steel connecting to his jaw, knocking him off the floor and setting a fire pit to his lip. The punch is too strong, the only thing Mark remembers is Yuta storming out of the izakaya, bringing his printed manuscript with him. 

Mark winces as he returns back to his seat, dabbing his busted lip with a tissue and raising his hands as if nothing happened a minute ago. “I’ll handle his bill.”

**~o~**

He was welcomed by a thundering yell the moment he laid his foot in his office. Mark knows it wouldn’t take too long for everyone to know, but he is still quite surprised because it’s just an hour after the incident.

Mark stands in front of his boss, non-reacting as he showers him a tirade of insults. It’s true, it’s what he deserves after shooing away this year’s breakthrough fan fiction writer turned ‘pro’ according to the press. Those millions of sales he just threw out of the bus will not be compensated by his sheer stand of only accepting quality outputs. After all, what only matters is what will bring money to the table.

So it wasn’t a shock when his boss hostilely asks him to contact and negotiate with Yuta within a month or he may find a new job.

“Guess we’re on the same boat,” Jaemin comments, neat as a pin, the soonest their boss storms out of Mark’s office. “I mean, you’re about to fire me, and Taeyong’s about to kick you out too.”

“You’re supposed to be fired if I see you here at the office today in case you forgot.” Mark mutters with a put-upon sigh through his nose.

“Eh, maybe next time. I’m not in the mood for job hunting.” Jaemin mutters before he walks out of the room.

Mark unlocks his laptop, lazily opening his business mail account to start drafting an apology email for Yuta. But the soonest his fingertips hover the keys, he tabs out and types a different thing he has been itching to do since morning.

_[Search Bar: Lee Donghyuck]_

The idea of getting into the winning side of chances for Mark is to overwhelm the negative probabilities with self-advantageous clues, pushing and sorting out any result right in his favor. But for the outcome of him meeting Donghyuck again, he has to rely on absolute luck. 

That’s why when they managed to cross paths in a bohemian-esque basement music bar at Hongdae a week after, just as Mark finishes his guitar solo and Taeil grunges the final chorus of a Jeff Beck Group song with no effort whatsoever, Mark is a deer in the headlights—wide eyes and lips parted mid-performance—the second his eyes laid on Donghyuck with an inappropriately bright beam over his cheeks.

“You just riffed a Beck solo on a breeze,” Donghyuck remarks when Mark approaches him after the band’s set, a hinge of unbelief and pride sitting at the edges of his lips. “You’re a fucking magician.”

Mark peers intently at Donghyuck, a smudge of black liner highlighting his lower eyes. “You’re here.”

“I’ve never set foot in this bar before,” Donghyuck tilts his head in delight. “Glad I went with my gut.”

Mark lets his sanity get lost in Donghyuck’s gaze. “You’re not able to start the gig,” His head is spinning, his heart is pounding in his throat. “Want me to play the whole thing for you again?”

Donghyuck didn't say anything, but his eyes speak for himself.

One moment they’re still at the bar, the next they’re on a cheap motel, lips meeting each other in desperation, backs hitting the stone walls, hands fumbling buttons, unbuckling jeans, fingers denting flesh, knees hitting the floor, sucking, pushing in, deprived low moans writhing and high gasps echoing to the silent room. Their eyes are lucid, riding each other’s high, neither taking a pause until they both hit the climax.

“I’ve tried looking for you online,” Mark whispers right onto Donghyuck ear, breath hot. “It’s unbelievable that there's a person like you that’s totally unsearchable.”

Donghyuck laughs. “You cheated. I told you let’s find each other by chance.”

Mark gazes down at Donghyuck pinned in between his hands. “You really think I would bet meeting you again by coincidence? And I got nothing I already told you.”

“You like me that much huh,” Donghyuck hangs his arms on Mark’s neck, tone teasing. “You’re cute Mark Lee.”

Mark swears his name has never been more satisfying to hear until Donghyuck slurs it on his lips. 

“Give me your number. Or just anything that I can have to talk to you,” Mark begs in a whisper. “Please.”

Donghyuck pulls him lightly as he pecks the tip of his nose, the expression on his eyes hidden by the dark-lit room. “Let’s put it on the stars again. Then ask me once more.”

Mark almost complains, but he is silenced by Donghyuck’s lips landing onto his.

The next weekend, Mark and Donghyuck bumped into each other on a small bar in Gangnam-gu as Mark plays with his acoustics. The next Sunday after, it’s Donghyuck doing an RnB setlist on a hotel lounge club in Yongsan-gu. It’s always a different place where they end up fucking, but the ending stays the same.

By the time Mark wakes up the next day, Donghyuck is gone as if he’s never been there. 

“Tell me, Mr. Lee,” Jaemin suddenly comments as he casually flips through a 2017 outdated tech magazine he randomly pulled out of Mark’s tabletop. “For a guy that’s supposed to be dying doing a full-time editorial job and a weekend band gig, you can still go to that mid-end jazz club once a week and manages to get fucking laid?” Jaemin closes the magazine with a thump. “Are you secretly a time manipulator or something?”

“Have we heard anything from Yuta?” Mark answers without bothering to look up, eyes fixed at the papers on his desk. “And stop caring about my personal life, I don’t care about yours.”

“No he hasn’t responded yet and your deadline is next week, so start looking for a new job,” Jaemin puts the magazine back to the tabletop. “And your neck is practically screaming ‘I got laid’, it’s not my fault for noticing.”

Mark turns at the nearest reflective surface and finds a shade of red near his collarbone. “I’ll be leaving the office early today,” He nonchalantly tugs his tie tighter. “Follow-up to Yuta, or call him. I don’t care. Just get a reply from him.”

Jaemin crosses his arms while tapping his foot at a pace. “I take my previous statement back. You have too much time on your hands.”

Mark swivels at Jaemin’s direction. “Tell that to my recent all-nighter because you fucked up your last proofreading Na Jaemin.”

“Aaaand, that’s my cue to call Mr. Nakamoto.”

**~o~**

Slow saxophone solo plays in the background when Mark arrives at the jazz club, fully concealing the sounds of violent raindrops pelting into windows and panicking pedestrians as they hurried through the nearest canopy they can run underneath. Mark didn’t anticipate the downpour himself, completely soaking him the minute he goes out of his car after parking it.

“Well that rain sure ain’t nice,” Jaehyun comments in awe as Mark sits to the stool adjacent him at the bar lounge. “Want some towel?”

Mark plonks his arms against the bar counter as he folds his soaked sleeves neatly. “Some tissues will do, thanks.”

He watches Jaehyun grab a tissue box below the counter, slide it in his direction, and turn around to pull a bottle from a shelf, uncapping and pouring it on a cocktail shaker with a practiced flourish. “You’re early today. The band won’t be performing in an hour.”

“I know,” Mark answers as he pats his exposed wet arm lightly. “It’s just boring at the office I left sooner.”

Jaehyun spins as he puts down a glass of scotch sour at his front, the ice rattling against its walls. “Why, have you realized it’s me and my drinks that you really look forward to in this jazz club?”

“Not a chance,” Mark quips as he sips from the glass. “Okay, maybe just your drinks.”

Jaehyun drags his stool parallel to Mark’s and plops onto it. “But really, why are you here this early?” He narrows his eyes into slits. “You’re too calculated with your schedule, you can’t afford to be this spontaneous.”

Mark knows it’s utterly futile to lie at Jaehyun. He has been a patron of the jazz club for the past years, Jaehyun can already see through his bullshit.

“I want to speak to Doyoung.”

**~o~**

Somewhere between a small, hidden room, right beside the bar lounge, Jaehyun escorts him after he finishes his scotch sour. “You owe me one.”

“I’ll treat you to my next gig.” Mark chimes.

“You better,” Jaehyun knocks at the door leisurely before he mid-shouts. “Doyoung, someone wants to talk to you.”

Mark can hear the borderline profanities inside the room, typical and understandable for someone who’s suppose to be kept in his short-lived serenity before he faces a crowd full of expectations and fabricated bubble of fascination. “Jung Jaehyun what do I say about off-limits when—“

The door swings open. Mark greets Doyoung with a half-assed bow. Doyoung answers with a grin.

**~o~**

Doyoung is known for being a bipolar son of a bitch. Sometimes he’s unfathomably sociable, even going off-stage after his performances to talk to the club regulars, entertaining them until they got tired of his antics. But most of the days he’s allergic to people, swallowing all of the praises and conversations thrown at him and spitting it right back at their faces without remorse.

Keeping a steady hand on his Classic Manhattan, Mark watches Doyoung enchants the whole club with his own rendition of a Chet Baker classic. It’s something about how his serene image and clean tone clashes with his inept attitude that reminds Mark why he was a patron in this club in the first place. Doyoung gets away with everything with his voice—he sings his heart out in apology and everyone will take it with an embrace.

Mark drums his fingers against the table asDoyoung scats through the song’s verse. He knew better than anyone else that he should be focusing to the show. But before he even caught himself, Mark already enters his bubble of reverie, his head running his conversation with Doyoung a while ago in bits and pieces.

_(“I didn’t know we’re in the visiting-the-backstage-to-catchup kind of relationship already.”_ Doyoung superficially smiles as he grabs his trousers hanging on a chair.

Mark tucks his hands on his pockets as leans his back on the doorframe. _“I mean we do talk after your gig.”_

_“Just for you to say I did well, every single time.”_ Doyoung faces the mirror to scrutinize himself. _“And then that’s it. That’s hardly talking.”_

Mark shrugs. _“Should I say anything else?”_

_“No,”_ Doyoung curls his lips as he looks at Mark from his reflection. _“I don’t look forward for you to say that I suck.”_

_“That makes the two of us.”_ Mark mutters as he looks back at Doyoung’s reflection in indifference.

Doyoung grins in merriment before turns to gaze at him in actuality. _“So what can I do for you?”_

Mark roams his eyes to study the room. From the chipped walls, fading varnished wood furniture and chunky-looking mustard couch, the room is evidently an old storage area turned into a dressing room. _“I want to know more about Lee Donghyuck.”_

There’s a long silence before Doyoung snorts, which eventually turns into a whole-hearted chuckle as he looks at Mark in sheer admiration. _“You know you’ve got the same look as everybody.”_

Mark didn’t say anything, but his face already drew the question for Doyoung.

_“Those people that had a chance to meet Lee Donghyuck,”_ Doyoung turns back to the mirror, still chuckling in between mutters, as he lathers a cheap wax on his palm. _“You’re all like that, looking like you’re willing to give the world to him.”_

_“I don’t understand,”_ Mark says politely, though the inflection in his tone betrays more of his confusion.

_“It’s not the first time someone asks me about him, it’s not just you Mark,”_ Doyoung combs his hair with his hands. _“People fall in love with Donghyuck, and he thrives with it. He leeches through it_ ,” He cleans his hands off with some wet wipes. _“I can’t believe my favorite patron is caught in his bait.”_

Mark’s lips parted in retort. _“What are you trying to say?”_

_“That Donghyuck doesn’t do relationships in any form,”_ Doyoung snarls. _“He’s got a way of making people very special, but it’s not something to hold on to. The moment when you thought you’re going somewhere, Donghyuck hasn’t even left the starting line.”_

_“Aren’t you and Donghyuck friends?”_

Doyoung smiles, this time, his eyes tell otherwise. _“Just like how we ‘talk’ after my gig? Sure, we’re friends.”)_

Mark clears his throat as he downs his drink on a single chug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So this is what happens after a 5 hour travel from our countryside back to the city as I jam through my jazz playlist)
> 
> \- This is supposed to be a single chaptered fic, but I realized I'll probably just abandon this if I left it for too long (I'm having a serious writer's block right now) so I posted this half-baked to force myself to finish this  
> \- Title is inspired by a Peggy Lee jazz classic
> 
> [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/luihandle)


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